Didn't Know
by Running Like Yesterday- Slowly
Summary: Not sure yet, let's see where it goes. Interested? Come and read.
1. Chapter 1

**AN:** New idea, something to get you guessing.

Harry wasn't the jealous type. He never had anything of his own, so he never knew what it was like to miss out on that little bit extra. He never wished for more, because he didn't have anywhere to put it.

Harry wasn't the silently brooding type either – he didn't find pleasure in spending endless hours picturing another man's demise. He didn't plan the day that he would come out victorious, a thousand and one girls cheering his name and laughing at the those who had once challenged him, as he uttered the words, "I told you 'one day',".

No, Harry wasn't jealous or brooding – or so he told himself, as he sat in the corner of the common room, slightly hidden by the curtains of the large castle-esque windows, looking down at this six-foot essay due the next day, staring up through his lashes at the pale girl across the room, throwing herself at the dark boy in the lounge.

No, Harry wasn't jealous or brooding – he was both.


	2. Chapter 2

Harry sat in the library, a thousand books surrounding him, yet he couldn't hide enough. Sitting near a window looking out over the lake, Harry struggled against his brain to study, to write, to do anything but look up.

Harry's neck began to ache as he forced himself to read the words over and over and over again – until he realised the physical pain was just as bad as that in his groin.

He gave in and stole a glance across the room; his sight weaving between book cases and students at tables. For such a late hour, Harry was annoyed at the number of people obstructing his view. But sure enough, there he was; Dean Thomas sat at one of the central tables, six or seven books laid out in front of him while he scribbled furiously. It wasn't as if he was a genius or a particularly studious person, it was because he had a paper due the next day. Harry knew this because he had the same paper.

_Just ask for help; start a conversation, _Harry thought to himself. Not only would he be getting work done, but he didn't have to kid himself with the trying-not-to-stare posture that was killing his back.

But Harry knew what would happen: he would sidle over there, oozing confidence, his voice laced with sensuality as he asks "Do you mind if I join you?", and before he would know it, Harry would have his finger up Dean's nose or something equally embarrassing.

So Harry pushed the thought to the back of his mind – helped by the fact that at that moment, two younger girls sat down with Dean. Harry could tell what they were doing; asking Dean for help, "Such a clever boy like you..." they would laugh as they rubbed themselves under the desks. At the thought, Harry's erection deflated considerable.

Dean relaxed for a moment as the girls started talking to him, seemingly he was taking a break, evident in the way he massaged his hands to release the tension of writing.

_Why don't you release your tension, Harry?"_ Harry ignored himself, looking up through his lashes at the dark boy smiling at the skanks who thought they knew how to win a man's heart: with jokes and compliments and boobs.

Harry looked back down at his parchment, two books – one at the top and one at the bottom – to hold the roll flat. He questioned the importance of knowing the difference between a defensive spell and an offensive spell as they were obviously so different, yet he was assigned the task for Defence Against the Dark Arts and he had to pass with flying colours again.

At first he wanted to succeed in that subject because it was the only subject he had the potential of passing. Then it turned into an expectation – everyone assumed he would do the best so he simply did do the best. And lastly, at that exact point in time, Harry wanted to do well in that subject so impress Dean, someone who always seemed so difficult to impress, making it oh-so-much sweeter when he parted those dark lips and sighed ever-so quietly; stunned, speechless.

Harry remembered when he unwrapped his Firebolt from Sirius in his third year and, speechless himself, looked up to see Dean stopped motionless on the other side of the table. Harry looked down at Dean's lips, parted slightly and inhaled deeply – everyone around him patted him on the back, mistaking his intake of breath as one of awe, however Harry was actually attempting to mentally crush his erection upon the image of gently pushing the tip of his dick into the slightly parted lips of the dark boy.

Remembering all the times he had imagined this same scene, Harry snapped back to the present and looked down as his parchment... again.

"Offensive spells are"

_Good start, dickhead. _Harry cursed himself as he watched the moon light skim across the glass surface of the black lake.

"At this rate you'll never finish."

_I know!_ ... _Wait..._

For a moment Harry believed he had thought those words, but upon seeing a hand pressed into the desk beside him, Harry realised it had actually been someone else who had spoken them.

Turning around, Harry saw Hermione leaning over his shoulder – clicking her tongue as she furrowed her brow at the parchment in front of him.

"Harry, it is already late enough as it is; what are you doing staring off into space?" Harry gave out a loud grunt before collapsing onto the desk, slamming his head onto the flat surface.

"Hermione, unless you're going to write it for me, you can go away; of course I've been trying to write this for ages, it's not like I -" Harry broke off mid-sentence, looking up to realise Hermione had left. Harry was just falling back into his 'I have no distractions, there is no reason why I shouldn't be writing' feeling he associated with assignments when he realised Hermione was talking to Dean... pointing in his direction... with Dean picking up his things... and heading in his direction.


End file.
